


rest, you old soul

by Crystalapplesauce



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I wanted him to sing it in Akan but couldn't find any that fit the Fante dialact that had lyrics, Sickfic, THEN I tried to switch to Ga but then it was the end of the fic and I couldn't fit it in :(, Trans Martin Blackwood, and ignores the ache in his heart as he remembers that he did this for Danny when they were younger, but that's just canon as usual :), chuckling as he fusses, except not really???, how could you not want tim trying and failing to not be a bi disaster and martin being a grumpy boy, i hope this what you wanted connor, if its not then you're wrong ♥, it's just marto not feeling that well!, not pictured in the fic: Tim sings Martin a lullaby!, so just take the mental image of Tim singing him a lullaby, yes tim is a simp for most of this no im not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27287473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalapplesauce/pseuds/Crystalapplesauce
Summary: Martin falls sick, and doesn't like to be fussed. Unfortunately, Tim is a very fussy person.
Relationships: Background Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	rest, you old soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celosiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/gifts).



> TW's in the end notes.

Martin, despite all of Jon's accusations, is a very studious worker. He's usually the first to arrive and the last to leave, wishing everyone a happy evening before they all go their separate ways. 

So when he stumbled into work looking fresh out of hell, Tim had every right to be worried.

All day, he had been sniffling and sneezing, gradually amassing a pile of tissues that rivalled Sasha's card tower. Everybody, even Jon, was concerned, the aforementioned man emerging from their office to 'rescue' some documents and not-so-subtly leaving some paracetamol in their place. 

When asked what was up, Martin pinned it down to seasonal allergies. 

"But it's November!" 

"Contrary to popular belief, Sasha, trees still exist in winter. They don't migrate or anything." 

It took the combined efforts of Sasha asking for a cup of tea and Tim then cornering him in the breakroom with a thermometer for him to actually admit he'd come down with something. 

To avoid contamination, Tim and Sasha had been forced to shove their desks away, leaving Martin alone and embarrassed in the middle of the room. All he had for comfort was the archival mascot, Lord Duck, and even that was meagre comfort. 

It was now just something past 4, and for the past hour it had been quiet, the silence only interrupted by occasional sniffles. Tim looked up from case #whatever to find Martin's face twisted up. "Bad lunch?" 

"I, uh, sure." He nodded sagely. 

"You never trust David's curry, ever. It's always a trap, no matter what he says." Martin smiled, in that awkward way when he has no idea what Tim and Sasha are talking about, and excused himself. Tim waited precisely 30 seconds before getting up to follow him. 

"Tim, it's generally not custom to follow someone to the bathroom," Sasha's teasing voice floated from behind her monitor, "Can't a guy take a dump in peace?" 

"My dear Sasha, there is no more isolating experience than being trapped in a cubicle, with nothing to keep you company other than your traitorous guts," A somber hand came to lay on his chest, "What Martin needs now is a companion, a friend, a true blue brother." 

"Or y'know, some fucking privacy." He simply shook his head, heading for the stairs. 

"You wouldn't understand our struggles." A derisive snort was all he heard before Sasha turned back to her work. 

Three flights of stairs and a curse to the beloved founder for it, the door swung open, creaking almost drowned out by the sound of a certain mother hen muttering aggressively in the furthest stall. As Tim drew closer, he could make it out snatches of words like 'it's off schedule', 'just the time for me to run out' and 'can't anything go right for once?' 

It would startle poor Marto out his wits if he knocked, so the man made do to lean against the wall, thumbing the buttons of his jacket. As predicted, Martin didn't make it 3 inches out the stall before exclaiming 'Jesus!' and jumping like a half a meter in the air. Tim, bastard that he is, just grinned. 

"Did you just come up here to give me a heart attack, or?" 

"I would do no such thing! No, I came to ask if you'd like to go home early. You've had a tough day." Martin wiped his nose on the cuff of his sleeve and shook his head. 

"No, Tim, I'm fine. We only have like what, an hour before we can go home? I can manage." 

"Exactly! Only an hour! On a weekend! I'm sure bossman wouldn't mind if we clock out a little earlier than usual." And if they did, then Tim can convince them in other ways. Like, put their glasses on top of the shelf or something. Martin's brow crinkled. 

"Weekend? Isn't today your biweekly pub night or something?"... Oh, yeah. The day where Jon and Sasha go hogwild and pull out facts from the randomest places. The three of them completely floor their trivia opponents and have a running streak going back to… forever, basically. 

"Eh, you're more important than a free round of drinks, Martin," his brow furrowed as if he somehow doubted this, "And besides, Sasha is a goddamn powerhouse by herself anyway. She would uphold tradition without me." 

"Still, I can't possibly keep you away from that," He moved towards the door, raising an eyebrow as Tim leaned to block his escape, "I'll be fine, Tim, you don't have to worry." Tim stuck his tongue out.

"You're not my mom, you can't tell me what to do." No, his heart rate did not quicken as Martin leaned down, both eyebrows raised. 

"Is that so?" 

"100%!" More like there being a 50/50 chance. "You're sick, and the longer you stay here, the more risk you have of infecting the rest of us." Now that broke through Martin's defenses, as the poor man began to worry his lip. 

Tim pressed on. "Come on, it'll be easy! I just call an Uber, and we can head home. And if we head to my place, we can… get down to business." His eyebrows waggled, but once again, he did not start to slide down the door as Martin leaned down, gaze apparently amused. 

"What sort of business?" 

"Oh, y'know, my legendary cooking skills, a heat pad, beating Sasha's score on just dance, a movie." Was it hot in here, or was it just him? God bless the shitty florescent lights that prevented Martin from seeing Tim's cheeks darken ever so slightly.

"Tempting as that is, you don't have to entertain me, Tim. I'll be fine by myself."

"Liar. If not mine, then yours then."

"... _Fine_ , but will you leave me alone after you drop me off or whatever?" Tim grinned, all teeth and mischievous glee. 

"No promises!"

~*~  
Indeed, all it took for Tim to convince Jon to cover him for pub night was to dangle the tantalising chance to infodump without consequences. The archival stood there in the bitter cold, wishing each other a good weekend. 

Jon lingered a little, all wrapped up in a purple scarf. "Martin," their tone was colder than the air around them, "I expect you to be at full working capacity by Monday, please. We have a lot to do." 

Martin sighed and gave a nod, but Jon still hovered, fiddling with the end of their scarf. "Also… chamaoile tea is good for the throat, having both anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties, helping to reduce swelling and repair tissue. It's also an antispasmodic, meaning it can help to reduce any coughing as well, so I would highly recommend it. If you're feeling generous, you can add honey, which does have antibacterial properties," their nose wrinkled, "but probably no more than a couple teaspoons? You can do more if you like, but in my humble opinion, it makes it far too sweet. My grandmother always did that, but-" Their mouth shut with a click, looking up to find Tim's teasing gaze. Martin, at least, had the decency to look interested, enraptured, even. "My apologies, I was uh, digressing."

"No no," The tallest man's voice was encouraging, "It's alright, you can continue." Tim rested his head on Martin's shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows. 

"Yeah, Jon, tell us all about your grandmother's dastardly deeds." 

At that, the poor bundle of gloves, coat and scarf only got more flustered, hands flapping in the breeze. "No, no, I've kept you long enough. I'm sure Sasha's waiting for me. Have a good evening, both of you." A curt nod, and Jon had turned tail and fled into the night. 

As soon as they were out of earshot, Martin turned on Tim, shoving him even as the Ghanaian's laughter rang out across the streets. "You bastard! You scared them away!"

"I'm sorry!" Tim cried without remorse, chuckling as he was assaulted by the end of Martin's scarf, "But the look on their face was priceless!" The other was struggling not to laugh, and a warm feeling pooled in Tim's belly, making his fingers tap a delighted rhythm against his coat buttons, but it almost dissapated as Martin broke into a bout of coughing. He patted his friend on the back, eyes wandering in search of that damned Uber. 

"So," He took Martin's arm and pulled him as they walked, "What do you wanna eat?" 

Martin almost scowled. "You're not cooking for me on top of everything." 

"Oh no, my friend, you're sorely mistaken," Tim patted his back, "You see, my stove is broken, and I'm simply dying to make my plantain and eggs. But you, good friend that you are, have allowed me to use yours." Martin looked nonplussed. 

"Where are you even going to find plantain?" Tim shrugged. 

"There's an African shop close to your house, I think." At this Martin began to look properly distressed. 

"Tim, this is too much. You skipped trivia night, called me an uber, and now you're trying to cook for me, with ingredients that you're going to _buy_. I can't pay you back-" He held up a hand. 

"You're not paying me back. I'm doing this because I care about you, and because you've had a shit day." Martin looked to ready to argue, but then he doubled over, clutching his stomach with a small groan. Tim clucked his tongue, and shifted his weight so that the man could lean on him. "And look at you, you're in no mood to cook yourself." 

Martin let out a grumble, his breath warm against Tim's ear. "Don't even cook that often, barely have the time or money," he mumbled. 

"See, a nice little treat for you then!" This did nothing to improve his mood, and even as they got into the car and away, Martin's face remained in a constant expression of upset. 

~*~  
Tim had never been in a room so cold. He understood, of course, that rent was high and so one cut corners where they could, but in some rooms he could have _sworn_ there were little wisps of fog, clinging to the corners. 

Their Uber driver had been kind enough to make a detour, and as Tim dropped the bags onto the kitchen floor, Martin had tried to hover, but Tim had shooed him off into the bathroom. 

It was bare, to be honest. Tim was never one to judge, but even Jon, minimalist as they were, had random doodads dotted around their living room. Martin had nothing but the bare essentials. Slicing and discarding the skin of the plantain, the man made a note to bully the gang into going to Keech. 

As the oil sizzled on the pan, he came to the realisation that he did not have a second for the eggs. That simply wouldn't do, because the oil would be too hot after the plantain, and would burn them. He turned down the heat and wandered towards the bathroom. 

"Um, Martin? Would you happen to have a spare pan on you? Doesn't have to be good, I can make do with anything." No reply. "Can I check your room for anything?" Still no reply. Well, he hadn't exactly said no, had he? And, the eggs were calling. Tim had a duty to do. 

Martin's bed was a singular one, tucked up against the wall and into a corner with some drawers underneath. He kneeled, pulling them out, but his eyes drifted across the room to land on the dresser, and immediately came across a bracelet. A very familiar bracelet, with two blue, two pink, and a singular white band running around the circumference. Tim's brain helpfully reminded him that one of Martin's ramblings had included something not being on schedule. 

_Ah_. 

He changed tasks, finding a handy heat pad instead, and left the bedroom to find Martin idly flipping the food, another pan already on the flame. "Sorry, Tim," he looked sheepish, "I couldn't exactly here you. I do have an extra pan, but it's Jon's, actually? I've been meaning to give it back," his face grew that fond yet exasperated look, "after they practically broke into my house to cook, but they're staunchly refusing to acknowledge what happened-" 

He was interrupted as Tim began to herd him towards the sofa, the hotpad being waved like the red flag at a bull sport event. "Shoo, Martin. No touching." 

Cornered, he could only sit on the cushions and grumpily cross his arms. "What's the heatpad for?" He looked worried all of a sudden. "Did you catch what I have?" 

Tim shook his head, putting the kettle on for both heating and tea. "Nah, it's for your cramps. Period's a bitch." Martin didn't quite know how to respond to that, until Tim flashed the inside of his jacket, the trans pin within a cluster of others, and then the other relaxed. 

"I shouldn't have gone snooping," his voice was softer now, "And I'm sorry for that. I won't tell the others."

Martin gave a slight shrug, settling back into the sofa to watch Tim work with an quiet intensity that made him in equal parts nervous and thrilled. "I rather it had been one of you guys instead of, I dunno," a hand gestured around the general area, with a short laugh, "One of my non-existent guests."

Tim chuckled, as the kettle stopped whistling with a gentle hiss, and he filled the heating pad and poured a cup of tea. Martin took both eagerly, and gave a soft sigh as the heat warmed his stomach and soothed his pain. It was quiet then, with only the sizzle of the eggs and the breathing of the both of them. It was a good quiet though. Comfortable. 

After a while, Martin spoke. "I'm sorry for making you do this." Confused, Tim already had his mouth open to object, but Martin was on a roll. "I shouldn't have come to work today, I know that, but it's Friday, y'know? And I didn't want to be pathetic and give up just before the weekend because we have a lot to do and I didn't you guys to suffer just because I'm not there but now you have suffered because I was there and Sasha probably has a cold now and you had to skip pub night and now you'll have to wait a whole 'not her two weeks and I know how much you love the trivia and I'm sorry-"

His apology was cut off by his own sob, but also by roughly 68kg of very concerned mom friend. Martin wrapped his arms around Tim on reflex, gasping and trying to apologise, but the other just rubbed his back and whispered at him, and it was all just too much. They stayed like that, Tim rocking Martin back and forth as the poor man broke down, dismissing any apologies and instead just softly encouraging him to cry. 

It was maybe six minutes later when Martin just fell limp in his hold, and two more when he wiggled out of it, seeming almost embarrassed. "I'm sorry, that was very, um, dramatic-" His wobbly smile and wet laugh was not returned. 

"It wasn't dramatic at all, you were just crying." Tim's face was sincere and serious, hands twitching as he resisted the urge to wipe away Martin's. Such things don't belong on such a pretty face. 

"Yeah, _just_. I had a full on breakdown all for nothing and now you've probably burnt your- _the eggs _!" Indeed, the acrid stench of burning food was wafting over from the kitchen, but Tim paid it no mind, eyes locked onto his instead. "Tim, we'll set the fire alarm off."__

____

"Fire alarm, fire shmarm, you're more important." Martin wiggled under him, trying to push him off with a scoff. 

____

"Very funny, Stoker. 7/10." For that, Tim collapses against him completely, and with a small 'oomph' Martin comes to terms with the fact that he is trapped. 

____

"You _are_ important, Martin. Not just because you make us tea or whatever, but because you work really hard, you write great poetry, no I did not go snooping in your drawers for that one you left in on your desk last week-" It was Martin's turn to blush now, and Tim reveled in it, "You're really passionate about whatever you do, and you're just-" Alright, fuck it- "Really fucking pretty, okay?" 

____

Martin's face was on fire, and he began to splutter out all sorts of objections, but Tim carried on. "It is _never_ a chore to take care of you. We'd all drop everything we're doing to help you, like you'd do for us. We're your friends, Marto, and we care about you." Even Jon, in their own little ways. "Okay?" 

____

The man under him had watery eyes, and not just from the smoke. "... You're going to make me cry again." Tim just smiles, and sinks down for a hug. 

____

It would have lasted longer, but then the eggs caught fire, in peak homophobic fashion. 

____

(Later, when the whole debacle is over, and they eat their food, eggless and covered in soot, Tim not so subtlety brings up the prospect of roommates. "Like, I know you just can't get enough of me at work," Martin rolls his eyes and he beams, "So I was thinking maybe I could move in? That way, you get free access to such a _splendid_ specimen who cooks such great food-" 

____

"And burns his eggs-" 

____

"And can teach you how to cook too, if you want." Martin hums, playing the long-since cooled pad on the table. 

____

"I'll think about it." But Tim can see the way the fog recedes, and he smiles to himself.)

____

**Author's Note:**

> TW for:
> 
> periods, flu like symptoms, general Martin-esque feelings of self worth, accidental and untentionally finding out your friend is trans but they haven't told you yet (is that one?) 
> 
> _HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY CONNOR_
> 
> You're so old now, at the ripe old age of 24. Has the arthritis set in yet? If it has, then take this as compensation. If not, then don't get your hopes up.


End file.
